


Sweet Dreams, LDN

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: I promise, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, References to BDSM, Sex Tapes, it's also a little cutesie under all this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 01:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: I just sorta always feel sick without you, babyAin't got anything to lick without you, babyNothing seems to stick without you, babyAin't I fallen in love?The Midsummer 'do for the Elton John AIDS Foundation is happening in Antibes.Taron is there.Richard is very much not.





	Sweet Dreams, LDN

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as an immature rant after a few days of solid Madderton content (SDCC was a _whole thing_ that happened), during which we all (you know who you are) got a bit greedy and salty when Madden did not show up at Elton's party.  
In our defense, David _had_ teased us with the promise of a _Rocketman_ reunion, which never happened.  
Have this, then, which could definitely not have been possible without my twisted mind, my personal hypewomen/people (you're too many to tag and I'm too sleep deprived and generally shit at HTML to actually attempt this, right now, but please do know I love you with my whole effing heart), and the wonderful [ phoenix_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mordwen/pseuds/phoenix_rose) for a speedy and in-depth beta (whom my hard-headed ass has decided to only partially listen to).  
The title is inspired by one of the greatest love songs ever written. If you know, you know.  
What can I say.  
Enjoy.  
I guess.

Taron presses on the contact on his phone a little more vehemently than he would have liked to. Then again, he still can’t believe he actually has to _call_ at all, so what’s another touch of heatedness going to do, really.

The phone rings. He has to listen to two, three, five, _seven_ of those familiar metallic vibrations you only get when calling a British number, before Richard finally picks the bloody thing up.

“Hel—”

“Where the _fuck_ are you.” Not quite a question—since Taron knows perfectly well where Smug-Bastard-In-Chief is _not_, at the moment—but an inquiry nonetheless, because he really, really wants to hear the reason why.

“Erm… I’m…” Richard stutters a tad, then continues, “London?” Doesn’t seem sure.

“I don’t know, Madden, _you_ tell me?” Taron is _pissed_, alright.

A brief silence on the end of the line. “Yeah, London,” the stupid Scottish brogue informs him. Then, like that, realisation seems to strike Richard. “Ah. It’s tonight, isn’t it.”

Taron really can’t believe Richard sometimes. Jet-setting and living the bloody Hollywood life should not justify being this inconsiderate.

“What do you _think_.” Again, not a real question, just a grunt of sorts.

“Shit, T, I’m sorry, alright?” comes in Richard again, and Taron notices, so help him God, that Glasgow Fuckface is _raising his voice_, and he really has no business doing that.

“You’re _sorry_, Richard?” Taron spits, and he suddenly considers whether his own voice, too, might be getting a jiffy too loud for his (and everyone else’s) liking. He takes a few steps further still, away from the chit-chat and the Aperol Spritz buzz. Emily notices, and she’s confused, so he points at his phone, mouths _sorry, five minutes_, not quite believing the understatement, and settles on the edge of the terrace. He breathes in the warm, salty air blowing from the pink sea in front of him—Antibes is a gorgeous place at the best of times, but everyone knows July sunsets make everything way more magical.

Still fuming, and somehow not at all distracted by the beauty around him, he goes on.

“How do you think you make me look, not showing up at these things? What am I supposed to say to _David_, who fucking posted about the whole fucking cast coming to this fucking party weeks ago? Also, pretty sure Elton told me you RSVP’d? Heck, haven’t we talked about this on _Saturday_, for Christ’s sake?” He vomits all that in one go, all the while fretfully tapping his hand on the terrace rail. He half-hopes his rage is buzzing Richard through the stupid AirPods he is one hundred percent sure the fucker is wearing.

“Bet Jamie isn’t there either, anyways,” is something that comes out of Richard’s mouth.

“_Richard_,” Taron booms, disbelief flooding into him all over again. “Jay has just had a fucking _baby_ on the other side of the fucking _world_. _You_’re the lazy arse who can’t even be bothered to hop on a private jet for forty-five bloody minutes.” _Goddamnit_.

Silence again. Frustratingly loud, as silences go. Painfully long, too.

“Taron.” Richard rolls the R way too much. He knows Taron likes it when he does that. Not falling for it tonight, though, is he. _Is_ he? No, definitely not.

“She speaks!”

“Taron, ye’re such a fucking drama queen, I swear to God,” Richard articulates, probably sniggering. Taron’s blood boils at the _nerve_ of him.

“And you’re a bloody fibber, Richard Madden. Y’told me you were going to be here, and you’re in fuckin’ Blighty instead.”

“I wanted to come, T, I really did,” Richard’s voice is suddenly back to its usual smooth, honied sound, and his tone is soft and contrite, and it’s already a little too much, to be honest.

It’s beyond Taron why he’s actually buying this act, but he is. He’s supposed to be mad. Annoyed. Furious. Truth is, he’s just realised that the fact he won’t get to see Richard’s Armani-clad arse tonight is actually making him very fucking miserable. Like, truly ruddy heartbroken, in fact. Heck, London isn’t even _that_ far from the South of France.

But Richard is still talking. “I was called out here last minute to promote a charity thing. Just got in last night, actually. Thought I’d text you, then life happened way too fast. Elton and David know, anyways. M’sorry, T. I really am.”

Ah. Right. So Elton John, the rockstar icon claiming to be his very close friend, has known all day, maybe since _yesterday?_, and hasn’t thought to mention it. Taron makes a mental note to very respectfully have a word.

Then, for good measure, he also spares a thought for the fact that Richard has pretended not to know what they were talking about for one full minute at the start of this conversation (one minute too much, if you ask Taron), and makes another mental note to himself, which involves punching Richard’s stupid mug next time he sees him—not that he’d ever do that, anyways. The promise of pretend violence does seem to partially appease the angry kitten inside him, though.

And then, of course, he completely _melts_ at Richard’s heartfelt apology, and he kind of really detests himself for it. Yeah. He’s very weak for Richard, so what.

On a second thought, though, he considers the fact that Richard is usually pretty weak for him, too. In some other way, admittedly, but he really, _really_ is. Which is why Taron decides to try another approach to make Richard feel bad about skipping the party.

“S’just a shame, Dickie. I was really looking forward to seeing you, y’know?” Taron’s tone settles on softer, verging on cheeky, for this second part of the conversation, although he absolutely means each and every word he’s saying.

A somewhat knowing silence falls on the end of the line. Then Richard raises one eyebrow—Taron just _knows_ he does.

“Ah. So _that_’s what this is about, eh?” comes in Scottish Shithead, and he's very _brass_, all of a sudden, and "about" sounds like _aboot_—and Taron hates the fact that his best-friend-turned-best-booty-call-of-his-entire-life is always a few steps ahead of him at all times. “Me not being there to fuck you into oblivion in yer hotel suite with the sea view?”

_Damn._ Taron can’t believe how quickly Richard has turned this game around. He swallows whatever _that_ was—quite appreciates it, in fact, then proceeds to blush to the roots of his hair, because there really are _a lot_ of people around him at the moment, and he’s supposed to appear on stage with Elton in forty-odd minutes, and now he’s sporting a semi, and he _hates_ Richard so fucking much.

“Was definitely planning on _some of_ _that_, yeah.” _On having you balls deep in me_, he was going to say—he’s extremely grateful he hasn’t, though, because he’s pretty certain he just saw Ian McKellen walk past, and having him hear _that_ would have been unfortunate.

Richard chuckles, at that, and Taron hears what appears to be a shifting of fabric on the end of the line.

“Do they have toilets at tha’ fancy soirée o’ yers, sweetheart?” the Gaelic drawl croons. The words rolling off his tongue are provocative, his tone mellifluous and seductive, and Taron just _can’t_.

“Pretty sure they do, yeah. It’s not _that_ kind of party.”

“Then go _find_ one.” Richard suddenly sounds very firm, and that, for some reason, goes straight to Taron’s dick.

Taron bites down on his lower lip and he finds he’s very glad he’s not exactly dressed to the nines, tonight, otherwise he probably would have had to discard his tie and open his shirt up, and it’s really not the time nor the place for a scene like the one he pulled at Met Gala back in May. Flashes of Richard fucking his face, pulling his hair, and then making him come all of three times in the space of half an hour cloud his mind to the point of making his eyes water. Of course there had been paparazzi outside to catch him walking off looking like that. _Of-fucking-course_.

Richard must sense the pregnant silence, because he finds the need to reiterate, “I’m not ‘aving a laugh, T. Go on, excuse yerself. Not like it’s the first time, anyways, is it?”

“Oh, shut it, you fuckin’ wanker.”

“Wanking. Now _that_ is something I would like you to be doing right now, instead of keeping this unconvincing bratty act up, Taron.” The rolled R is, if possible, more scrumptious than it’s ever been, and it knocks all the sass in Richard’s retort out of the bloody park.

“You _love_ my bratty act,” Taron replies, matter-of-factly.

Richard practically purrs at that, and Taron can hear the wicked grin in his voice, and a jolt of pleasure threatens to overwhelm him. He makes the sensible decision of leaving his spot on the terrace, and quickly finds himself wiggling around A-listers holding glasses of wine and colourful cocktails. The eye contact and the handshakes that inevitably follow threaten to slowly destroy him, _hi, Ewan, great to see you too!_, _oh, Chris, what a pleasure, can’t wait to see you perform!_, and by the time he finally gets to the reception hall he’s positively burning up. He has to slalom through several still empty tables before he sees the flashing blue-green _Toilettes_ neon sign. Diving into the men’s lavish, dim-lit bathroom sends a strange rush of adrenaline and anticipation through him. It might be due to the _sexy_ (there’s unfortunately no other word for it) smell emanating from the fancy fragrance sticks next to the emerald green marble sink, or it might just be the fact that Richard has been breathing a little harder down the line for the past thirty seconds or so—Taron is not certain. What he’s absolutely positive of, however, is that he’s now completely hard, and his level of neediness has just reached a new high.

“Talk to me, baby. Where are ye?” Richard murmurs, and the way he says _baby_ sends a fierce rush of blood to Taron’s lower abdomen.

“You first,” he replies, like the punk he still wants Richard to believe him to be, not quite ready to abandon his act yet. He closes the cubicle door behind him and rests against it, tentatively palming himself through his trousers, sighing in relief.

“I’m on the red chair in the study room," Richard surprisingly obliges without a fight, and Taron can picture that so perfectly—striking piece of furniture housing a striking piece of man, _Reservoir Dogs_ poster hanging on the wall opposite him, dark grey walls, massive iMac on the desk, Murakami books scattered everywhere. Doesn’t help that they’ve actually fucked on said chair at least five times before, either. Richard adding, “It’s quite hot, too. Not wearing much,” kind of takes his breath away.

“God, Dickie, you can’t just _say_ stuff like that.”

“Actually, yes, I _can_, and I _will_,” comes in Richard again, authoritative, deadly. “Have I ever told ye how pretty your stretched hole looks around my cock, sweetheart?”

Taron’s vision goes blurry for a split-second, and he barely realises that his right hand is now unzipping his flies and popping the single button on the waistband—he’s not even wearing a fucking belt tonight, and once again he’s grateful it’s summer and hot as hell itself outside, and that Elton texted him something along the lines of _come as you are, honey_ this morning, instead of talking him into a Tom Ford three-piece.

“Don’t—ughhh…” he moans, quietly enough, he hopes, for no-one else other than Richard to hear, just as he finally tucks his free hand into his trousers, “…don’t think you’ve ever mentioned.”

He hears Richard groan back, and for some reason he’s sure he has a bottle of lube right next to him, because he hears such unmistakeable _sounds_, like something very thick and slick and _hot_ is being stroked with purpose, only mere centimetres from his face. He has to ask, “Rich, are you—”

“_Yes_, T, course I am.”

“Oh, _God_, Richard.”

And then somehow the noises coming from Richard’s side of the conversation get louder, clearer, _pornier_, and Taron really wishes he’d pocketed his own AirPods before leaving his hotel room, because right now he feels like he definitely needs more than one hand to properly take care of himself.

“Couldn’t ‘elp it, really,” Richard says, and Taron is picturing him so clearly—completely naked, legs parted, slightly bent over himself to let the earpieces pick up on every little filthy wet sound he’s making while working on his cock. “I found a video of that on my phone this morning. Been watching it over every time I get five minutes on my own. Been hard for you _all fuckin’ day_, love.”

“A—” Taron cannot quite manage forming words, right now. “A _video_?” He moans a little too loud when he tentatively slides his thumb over the tip of his cock and he marvels at the amount of moisture already there.

“Just a little something I took back in Feb,” Richard concedes, “When we were in Verbier, remember?”

Taron makes a weird, whiny noise at that. He _does_ remember. Richard had surprised him by calling on him at his London flat on a gloomy wintery Sunday night, wearing the most ridiculously endearing 80’s ski gear Taron had seen on anyone possibly _ever_ (yes, himself as Eddie Edwards included) and holding a piece of paper in his hand. Said piece of paper had turned out to be a print-out of a reservation at a lavish five-star hotel overlooking the slopes in Verbier, Switzerland, which apparently had come strongly recommended by James Blunt, of all people. Richard’s Range was already packed with everything they needed for a successful road trip, and Taron had not been able to resist the level of Thoughtful Boyfriend that Richard had reached right in that moment, without even categorising himself as such, by the way, because they hadn’t yet had The Talk—still haven’t, actually. Maybe they really should.

They had spent six extremely lovely days in the mountains, then, alternating between struggling not to look like complete unagile beasts while sliding down children’s slopes (actually, no reason to use plural here, that was all Taron, because Richard has been skiing since age three and is fucking _ace_ at it, and looks bloody smooth on his highlighter-blue Stöcklis—yes, of course he actually owns a pair of skis, and _of course_ they’re the most expensive on the market), eating never-ending pots of fondue or several helpings of raclette and dried meat every single night, and, obviously, having sex. _All_ the sex. On every horizontal, vertical or diagonal surface they could manage within the gigantic hotel room they were occupying, only stopping when exhaustion hit them, usually in the small hours of the morning.

There had been one day, however, when they had not been skiing in the afternoon and had spent time being pampered at the hotel spa instead—sauna, Jacuzzi, champagne, even a couples’ massage. The whole fucking package. Maybe it had been the complete relaxation, maybe the bubbly, they weren’t really sure; but, as soon as they got back to their room, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. This had turned into Richard relentlessly pounding into Taron in a range of colourful and creative positions, some of which may or may not have involved ropes and a blindfold and maybe even a ball gag, and Richard asking Taron if he could film some of it for future reference, to which Taron had gladly consented, probably somewhere in-between having Richard’s mouth on his cock and fucking himself open on Richard’s fingers.

Taron had nearly forgotten all about it. Richard, _clearly_, had not.

“I actually have it playin’ on the computer screen,” Richard provides, rudely interrupting his train of thought, “Oh, and I just smacked your bum. How I wish I was bending you over this chair and doing that right now, _baby_…”

Taron has to catch a quick breath and squeeze the base of his cock hard, because he really doesn’t want to come just yet. It’s rare that Richard is so explicit with words—he usually prefers to let his actions and expertise and wonderful, _wonderful_ assets speak for him. So this, right now, is all the more delicious, and worth prolonging as much as he can manage.

“You’re driving me fucking insane out here, Dickie,” Taron says, and he has to balance his phone between his shoulder and his ear to be able to yank his trousers all the way down, because his brain is screaming that he needs a wider range of movement, and his cock now simply _demands_ two-handed attention. The position of his head is not at all comfortable, but it is more than made up for by the relief coming from being able to tease the tip of his cock with one hand while stroking his shaft with the other. He makes a point of spitting into his hand for lubrication, and the new noise gets a reaction from Richard.

“Are ye touching yerself for me, lovely lad?”

“Hmm-hmm,” Taron mumbles, and he has to throw his head back against the door as best he can, with the phone still precariously balanced on his shoulder, and bite down on his lip to stifle a particularly obscene moan that is on the verge of escaping his lips. He _loves_ it when Richard goes all Highlands on him.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you, T—oh, God, your bum looks so _pretty_…” groans Richard, the edge and rasp in his voice more audible than ever, the sounds from his cock increasingly filthy.

“I love it when you take me from behind, Rich,” provides Taron, because this game is only fun if two people play it, after all.

“You _do_, don’t ye. Ye’re a wee slut sometimes, aren’t ye, sweetheart.”

The rumble in Richard’s voice and the sudden tone change make Taron arch his back into his own touch, and his phone almost falls off his shoulder. Almost.

“You just get so _deep_, that way—fuck, Richard, please—can you put the sound on?”

Sudden silence falls on Richard’s end of the line, and Taron holds his breath for a split-second. Then he hears fumbling, a few clicks, and—_wow_, a string of incoherent sexual noises out of some speaker. The voices sound like they’re straight out of a porno, except it’s so unmistakeably _them_, Taron needs to grip himself tight once again to avoid coming straightaway.

“Holy—”

“Taron, if ye say _holy Moses_ right now I’m going to hung up the bloody phone,” Richard says, wanting to sound stern. The smile in his voice is very clearly audible, though, and Taron feels a surge of love for the man he was not expecting to get quite at this moment, given they’ve been quite literally caught under a thunderstorm of lust for the past ten minutes or so.

“Oh, fuck off,” Taron manages, always on cue, endlessly teasing, pleased at the raspy chuckle he gets from Richard.

“This is another one of me favourites,” Richard moans, and Taron can’t help but notice that GQ Man of the Year has gone back to work on his cock—the sounds coming from his end of the line are _obvious_. He imagines Richard is biting his lower lip in that disgustingly attractive way he’s come to admire in the past ten months of severe shagging they’ve been doing, and this gets him, if possible, even more worked up.

And then Richard coos, “Oh, _love_, just look at ye… Perfect,” and Taron finds himself quite simply _yearning_ for Richard’s touch. Like, it physically _hurts_ not to be with him right now, and Taron hates him a little more for bailing tonight.

The explicit noises in the background don’t help, either. He’s pretty sure he’s just heard Richard from the tape instruct something along the lines of _don’t suck on that gag too much, you’ll make a rite mess of yerself, love_. Taron shuts his eyes and he’s immediately back in that hotel room, and the scene is now slightly different from the one they’ve just been commenting on, but he remembers this one just as clearly. His blindfold was hanging askew and letting his left eye peek at Richard, who was kneeling between his legs and kissing his thighs—long, open-mouthed kisses, his beard longer than usual, leaving a trail of red skin on its passage. Richard was enjoying this quite a bit, it seemed, and touching himself while he was at it—thick, veiny cock standing proud and disappearing into his fist at a regular, painfully slow pace, which quickly made Taron lose his mind.

Richard loves doing this—fucking him hard and fast for what feels like forever, only to stop right before Taron is ready to climax, at which point he slides out and starts teasing him senseless. This usually involves a panoply of different torture methods, spanning from Richard ghosting his hot breath on Taron’s cock to Richard putting a plug in him and leaving it in for what feels like _hours_. In passing, Richard also has a _thing_ for scratching him up with his beard, and Taron has decided months ago that that particular kink is definitely a shared one. _Fuck_, it really is.

Taron gets himself out of his reverie, somehow, because he feels his orgasm approaching, and it’s going to be a violent one, and he very badly wants to get something out before inevitably being reduced to a babbling mess.

“You have no idea… how… much… I… _need_ _you_, Rich,” he murmurs, and each word is sheer agony, and it’s coupled with a calculated stroke of his right hand and a thrust into his left, which he holds in front of his cock, to tease the tip at every buck of his hips.

“Oh, baby, me too,” Richard moans back, “I want to bite yer thighs until you beg me to stop, and I want my mouth around your cock.”

Richard is _ruthless_ sometimes, and Taron loves him for it. For other things, too, actually. Probably just _loves_ him, huh.

“Rich, _pleasepleaseplease_, not gonna last…” Taron says, struggling to keep his voice down—not being very discreet at all, actually. Wondering whether someone might be listening does nothing but fuel the fire in the pit of his stomach, though. He makes a point of running a thumb around the head of his cock, revelling in the amount of moisture he finds there, and wishes Richard was there to see him as he sucks the same digit into his mouth. He is not, of course, but that doesn’t stop Taron from doing it anyways, and he feels _filthy_, but he really, really doesn’t give a sod.

“Come for me love, come in my mouth, sweetheart, I wantae taste you,” Richard is saying, a possessive tone in his voice that makes Taron’s hips jerk. His mind goes straight there: Richard’s beautiful lips around his cock, and his amazingly talented tongue hard at work on teasing each and every sensitive spot on his shaft, and possibly even having two or three of Richard’s fingers buried into him, and he can’t hold it in anymore.

He shoots hot and hard into his own fist, arching his hips into the sweet release, not quite sure of how loud he’s being, not even realising he’s chanting Richard’s name, definitely not paying attention to the fact that his phone is now tumbling miserably on the dark marble floor. He sees black, then white. He breathes in the distinctive smell of his semen, his heart breaking slightly when his nostrils don’t catch Richard’s scent right after—because he’s not there, of course, the _motherfucker_—and oh, actually, why can’t he hear his voice anymore, either?

Oh, fuck, his _bloody_ _phone_.

Still half shuddering, not quite comprehending how, he bends down to retrieve the useless piece of plastic from where it’s lying, next to the toilet, cursing softly under his breath. He’s relieved to discover it’s not shattered. Gee, thank God for Gorilla Glass and the military-grade cover he’s put on the thing—Richard had taken the piss when it had come in the mail, had asked him whether he was planning to spend time on a building site or climb Mount Kilimanjaro in the foreseeable future, and it all had been _very funny indeed, Madden_. But now joke’s on him, really, because had his phone smashed into a million pieces, well, their only means of communication for the night would have gone bye-bye.

Taron picks the blasted thing up off the floor and is only half surprised when he hears Richard roar with laughter at the end of the line. He sighs, looks at his left hand, which is still sticky with cum, and he can’t help but grin manically himself, and marvel at the fact that Richard Madden has actually just managed to make him come this hard from just _talking_ to him, somewhere, a thousand-odd miles away.

“Oh fuck off, Dickie,” he says, but he quickly finds he’s laughing too, and he feels kind of ridiculous, with his ragged breathing and his pants down to his ankles and his hand covered in jizz, but the sound of Richard’s mirth is better than his favourite Bowie song right now, and he melts, again, as usual, as he expects he forever will.

“Ye’re a fuckin’ piece of work, d’you know that, Taron?” The rolled R again. Jesus. Can a man not get a break?

“_Why_ are you not here, Richard,” Taron asks, and this time it’s not out of rage. He just wants him a little too bad.

“Honestly? If I’d known _this_ was where the night was going, I’d ‘a jumped on a plane straight away.”

Taron knows Richard is euphemising, being a tease, nothing new there—but it still hurts a little.

“This wha’ I am for ya, Madden? Just a piece of meat?”

“Not _just_ a piece of meat, T. The absolute fuckin’ best cut.”

Taron has the feeling that Richard is not telling him everything, but he doesn’t insist.

\---

Taron is sitting a little uncomfortably. It’s due to multiple reasons, the main ones off the top of his head being the fact that it’s only been a few minutes since his steamy phone call with Richard—he still can’t believe he’s actually just tossed one off at possibly the chicest event of the summer—and the fact that Emily is sitting next to him. By this point, he’s really not sure this arrangement they got into since breaking up as an actual couple is working quite as well as they’d hoped. The deal was she’d appear with him at public events, premieres and such, and maybe that they’d be strategically snapped holding hands on a night out, once or twice. Something about keeping rumours at bay—at least until awards season, anyway. That was what his agent had suggested, and it hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea at the time. Now, sipping on what he’s pretty positive is the best vodka tonic he’s ever had in his life, thinking longingly about Richard, and observing Emily from the corner of his eye—she looks like she doesn’t want to be there—he’s not quite sure anymore. The whole exercise seems like a waste of everyone’s time, and it’s also pretty fucking emotionally straining, if he’s honest. Heck, he’s not even positive there _are_ rumours floating around at all. It’s not like people actually think him and Richard are together, anyways. _Right_?

Taron’s due on with Elton in five. He can see the _Honky Cat_ jacket hanging from a clothes rack on the side of the stage—he’s so excited about putting the fecking thing back on, he can barely keep it in his pants. The sight of the prop makes his mind immediately fly to Richard once again, and he fleetingly blames the alcohol for the butterflies in his stomach and the way his cheeks are flushing up—even if he knows perfectly well that he’s kidding himself.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and this for some reason sends an instantaneous wave of anticipation throughout his whole body. Wow, he _really_ needs to chill the fuck out.

He fishes his phone back out and sees that it’s a message from Richard. The fluttering of butterflies has turned into a fucking tornado, by now. He sees Emily looking at him and suddenly gets up with an excuse, somehow sensing that he really needs to read whatever this is _in_ _private_—Christ, he’s already burning up. He grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and settles in a corner of the crowded room. As soon as he’s away from prying eyes, he opens the message.

(9:23 P.M.) _Thinking of you._

A video is attached, which Taron cannot click on quick enough.

He is greeted by a very flustered Richard, who’s looking deeply into his selfie camera, a few tiny beads of sweat rolling down his face, and his lips are swollen from all the biting he’s doing on them. The backdrop is unmistakeable—the fucking red chair stands out like a stray poppy in a wheat field, and it’s already too much as is, but then the camera flips around, and Taron almost chokes on the wine he’s drinking, a fizzy pain immediately settling in the back of his throat and making him cough out loud.

What Taron sees is Richard’s hand on his cock, stroking it, painfully slowly, taking its time on every wonderful inch, and, _fuck_, it’s all it takes to send him on a one-way trip to _Losing His Shit_ territory. He manages to spare a thought for the fact that there’s probably _audio_ to this, and he curses himself again for not having brought his fucking wireless earphones, because he bets Richard sounds very _pretty_ right now. He’s transfixed on watching Richard jerk his stupidly pretty dick off for a good two minutes, which feel like twenty, really, until he finally sees him shoot his load on his legs—spread out wide enough that they’re touching the sides of the armchair—and the cream-coloured carpet of the study room. He can’t help but lick his lips at the sight of it, and doesn’t even manage to spare a thought for the poor bastard who’s going to be hired to clean said carpet in the immediate future.

The camera flips back to Richard’s face, and he’s breathing hard and _grinning_—a wicked, knowing smile that quite literally takes Taron’s breath away. Richard blows a kiss at the camera and says something right after. Luckily, Taron manages to read his lips, and catches something in the vicinity of _love you_. He does his best not to swoon at this. His heart does a backflip in his chest, which he partially fights by downing his champagne, and he hopes he’s not wobbling as much as he thinks he is while he walks back to his table.

His snippet with Elton goes very well—he wears the jacket, belts out a couple of songs, just generally basks in the glory of being Elton John one last time. He loves Elton, and Elton loves him, so very much. In fact, Taron still can’t believe how _right_ and _easy_ it feels to be on a stage with the man—the bright-eyed boy from Aberystwyth and the larger-than-life rock icon from Pinner, voices and personalities coming together way too seamlessly for this to actually be real life and not just a fucking wonderful dream.

He’s still riding the stage high when he plops back down on his chair and he instinctively picks up his vodka tonic, which, he is pleased to notice, has been topped up in the meantime. He suddenly remembers he never replied to Richard’s indecent message from before, so he gets his phone out once again to do so, and as he unlocks it he’s met by a string of notifications unusually long for a Wednesday night. The messages are all from Richard.

(9:28 P.M.) _Break a leg, love x_

(9:39 P.M.) _David’s just sent a video _

(9:40 P.M.) _I love that goddamn jacket_

(9:40 P.M.) _Almost a shame it’s getting donated_

(9:41 P.M.) _Wow, no, forget that. Charity’s good. You do weird things to me, y’know?_

(9:45 P.M.) _Check your inbox_

Taron opens the final pop-up notification, which takes him to his Gmail account, and it’s something from Richard again, of course it is. It’s a forwarded e-mail—it looks like a travel reservation of some sort, from a company called Flying7Air Nice, and Taron cannot quite believe his eyes when he reads that Marie from customer service is _very happy to confirm to Mr. Madden that a private jet for Mr. Egerton has been booked for July 25, leaving Nice Airport at 9 AM GMT+1 and landing at City Airport at 9:15 GMT_.

Taron jumps back to iMessage and types as quickly as he possibly can.

(9:52 P.M.) **_Richard--_**

(9:52 P.M.) _I’m so sorry for not coming. I’m a tosser. I miss you. You were so beautiful tonight. Please come?_

(9:53 P.M.) **_You drive me up the fucking wall sometimes._**

(9:53 P.M.) _Keeping it interesting, an’ all that. C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t make me beg?_

(9:54 P.M.) **_Fuck off, you smooth bastard._**

(9:54 P.M.) **_Also, is it 9 AM already?_**

(9:55 P.M.) _God, I don’t deserve you. _

(9:55 P.M.) **_You really don’t._ _Still can’t fucking wait, though._**

(9:56 P.M.) _See you tomorrow, babe. Sweet dreams._

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. I don't really know what that was. I was trying to make it better somehow.  
This might get a sequel, depending on how filthy a mood I'm in for the next couple of weeks.  
Keep your eyes peeled--or don't, I'm not sure yet.  
Bloody love y'all, as usual.  
Comments and kudos are appreciated!


End file.
